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Saturday, May 14, 2016

Me Taedet

Peeking out a
slit in the window blinds, Jougs stared up the empty street. He ran a hand over
his cropped hair and exhaled heavily through his nose. When he turned from the
window, he found Vorant watching him. “What?”

“Just sent the
old boy a message.”

“And?”

“Plan A is a
go,” Vorant said.

“Still? Okay. He
hear from the others?”

“I didn’t ask.
He didn’t tell.”

“We’ll know
soon enough, won’t we?”

“Without doubt.”

“Should we get
moving?” Jougs asked.

“Takes ten
minutes to get there. We got time for a snack,” Vorant said as he used his head
to motion toward the kitchen.

“Man, you’re
always fucking hungry.”

“You know when
we’ll get another meal?”

“No.”

“Then, shut the
fuck up. Have a sandwich.”

Jougs laughed,
“already made them, eh?”

“Of course.”

“Always
hungry,” Jougs muttered to himself. He followed Vorant into the kitchen and
found his partner in crime had set up a veritable feast. On the dining table
sat two plates covered by submarine sandwiches crammed full with four inches of
sliced beef, onion, and spinach leaves, as well as a handful of potato chips
each. “What the hell?”

“We didn’t get
breakfast.”

“Dude, there’s
enough food here to feed half the Poterits.”

“We didn’t get
breakfast,” Vorant repeated.

Smiling, Jougs
sat down at the table. He picked up his opened bottle of beer, raised it in
salute, and then downed a quarter of it. Taking a minute to decide on the best
way to attack his sub, Jougs smashed the sandwich and ripped it in half. Then
he bit in, with his mouth full, he said, “damn, that’s good.”

Shaking his
head and rolling his eyes, Vorant said, “thought you weren’t hungry.”

“We didn’t get
breakfast,” Jougs retorted.

The light
breeze rattled the piece of paper in General Tomlyn’s hand. His eyes narrowed,
his nose wrinkled, and he pursed his mouth. I
know these marks, he found the dots and dashes familiar somehow, but
couldn’t place them. He took a moment to study the radio operator who wore her
jet black hair in a regulation bun just below her olive green cap. Her uniform
was overly starched, perfectly pressed, and still managed to accentuate her
every curve. She held herself with a confidence that bordered on defiance. Approximately
the same age as his two nieces, but quite unlike them, her eyes reflected profound
sorrow. Perhaps it’s this place, he breathed
in the putrid musk of Avalona’s recent destruction. “How many times have you
heard this…this signal?”

“Twice, sir.
But, it’s been different each time. I wasn’t prepared for the first,” she
winced, before adding, “so, I didn’t write it down.”

“I don’t know
what that message was, but the colonel looked sick after hearing it. I stepped
out for a smoke and saw him with the soldier that brought the Justices here. They
both took off after that. Uh, sir, you probably don’t need me to tell you this,
but something ain’t right.”

Ignoring her last
comment, General Tomlyn ordered, “keep listening and logging these,” he waved
the paper at her. “You hear more, run the log to Captain Prescott.”

“Yes sir!” she
said, knowing well the sound of dismissal.

“And, PFC,” he
waited until she looked him in the eyes, “only myself or Captain Prescott. No
one else. Understand?”

“Uh, I do sir.
But, I can’t…I can’t monitor the frequency by myself. I fall asleep, I could
miss another message.”

The general’s
lips curled, in a curt little smile as he nodded understanding. He ran the
rosters through his mind, without luck. “Who’s your supervisor?”

“Oh,” she
blushed, ducked her head down, and stifled a grin, “I know the corporal. We
just met the lieutenant.”

“You trust
him?”

“Reggie? I
mean Corporal Bradley?”

The look of
annoyance that crossed General Tomlyn’s face, matched his tone, “yes, the corporal.”

“With my
life,” she said.

“Good,” the
general replied, “you two just got reassigned. Anyone give you grief, tell them
to take the matter up with Captain Prescott. Get me?”

“I get you,
sir!”

Slowly, Ensign
Osborne raised the baton in his right hand, while his left hand parted the shrubbery.
A pissed off squirrel darted passed him, up a nearby tree, and from a low
branch turned to confront Osborne. Then, the flying rodent let out an indignant
string of chirps that made Osborne chuckle. To the squirrel he said, “I hear
that!”

“Well? What is
it?”

Osborne turned
back to the prone general, with vindication he said, “just a squirrel, sir.”

Groaning,
General Michaels rolled his eyes and heaved himself into a sitting position. This gets out and they’ll send me to the old
folks home, the general shook the thought off. “Osborne, what did you see?”

“Calm down? I
can’t walk. My wom—friend is missing. A storm’s coming. And, you don’t know
shit about tracking! That storm hits before we find her, we lose the trail. Tell
me to calm down again, boy, and I’ll shove my cane so far up your ass they call
you ‘Scarecrow.’”

In that
instance, the puzzle pieces flew together and Ensign Osborne knew he wasn’t
searching for Colonel Lara Thompson, retired leader of Mercury’s Elite Guard.
No. He was searching a graveyard for a lost old lady whose elderly lover couldn’t
look for her without his help. Osborne thought of his great grandfather, who’d
been struck with the Forgettin. The whole family used to alternate nights on
watch, just in case Grand Seamus woke up forgetting Grand Brigid had already
taken the long walk. Osborne knelt down. “General Michaels,” he placed his hand
on the general’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and said, “I swear to you,
I’ll find her. And, when I do, I’ll come back for you. In the meantime,”
without warning, Osborne scooped the general up and carried him to the Caliber
mausoleum. “Let’s get you out of the elements.”

Though General
Michaels wanted to argue, he held his tongue. After Osborne set him down to
struggle with the mausoleum door, Michaels said, “look for broken branches,
footprints, arrows, anything out of the ordinary.”

“I will, sir,”
Osborne said as he shoved the mausoleum doors open.

Surprised to
find his front door locked, Patrick Field lifted up a flower pot and removed a
spare key, “I didn’t see any reason to bring my keys. For Mercury’s sake, my
living room was chock-full.”

Shrugging off
the gardener’s explanation, Colonel Dagon tapped his foot while waiting for the
door to open.

No sooner, did
Field shove his door open then a hand dragged him into the house. Field yelled
out, “this is my house, damn it! Let me go!”

“Let him go!”
Colonel Dagon commanded as he rammed the door with his shoulder.

“Sorry, sir,”
Santos shouted, releasing his grasp on the gardener and the door.

The colonel
bulled through the door and into the middle of the living room, where he skidded
to a halt, cursing, “sweet mother of Mercury, fuck me. A grif—.” Recognizing
his error, Dagon, dropped to one knee, raised both his hands in offering and
pledged, “my life, my liege.”

As she pulled
her arm away, Dagon saw the bracelet, and fell back to his knees, whispering,
“the Messenger.”

Sharing a
moment’s exasperation, Cassie and Archel exchanged slightly amused looks.
Finally, Cassie said, “please, sir. Stand up.” She didn’t know who the soldier
was, but the tension in the others had eased. Even Archel seemed to relax a
bit. “Who are you?” Cassie asked much to the chagrin of Santos.

“Colonel
Gawain Dagon, Commander of Mercury’s Elite Guard, 1st of the Servants,”
Dagon said as he stood.

“Oh, thank
Mercury!” Cassie exclaimed.

“Why?” Archel
wondered in bird.

Replying in
kind, Cassie asked, “because he’s head of the Mercs. He should know how to
help.”

Santos closed
and locked the door while Dagon and Field helplessly watched the two youths
carry on a conversation by squawking, chirping, and twittering.

“Do you think
so?” Archel asked.

“I mean, I
did. But, you tell me. You were raised in the Templus.”

“You’re
probably right, after all, he was there when Kais—uh—when Kaiser Imler
changed,” Archel stepped back into the living room, dropped onto his haunches,
and lowered his head. “How long am I gonna be stuck like this?” he whined.

Speaking in
her normal voice, Cassie asked, “Colonel, can you help us?”

“What do you
mean, ‘no’?” Chief Justice Adonis snarled.

“I mean,
‘no.’” General Tomlyn calmly responded.

“As the Chief
Justice of the Antigone Courts of Poterit Don, I demand you oblige the court
and return us to Ambrosia City.”

“As General of
Plains Region, with standing orders in hand, I refuse to oblige you.”

“Under whose
authority?”

“The crown’s
authority,” Tomlyn smiled at Adonis, before turning his attention to the other
Justices. “Kaiser Rudolpho Imler has ordered you here until his arrival. He
hasn’t arrived, therefore, you must stay.”

“This is
ridiculous,” Adonis spit, it took everything in his power not to blurt out, a dead man can’t arrive. “Show me your
orders.”

“Show me yours,”
Tomlyn replied.

“Oh, for the
love of all things holy,” Justice Seeley Songtree shouted, “if either of you
starts waving your dicks around, I swear to Mercury, it’ll be the end of you
both. Chief Justice, you well know that just because the court carries a
motion, doesn’t mean the Regulars are bound by it. General, you know we’re here
under orders. And, it appears, that we’ll all be here until those orders
change. So, instead of you two sword fighting, why don’t you have someone show
us to our rooms, tents, or back to the damned bus. I’d like sometime to
contemplate.”

Lightly
clapping his hands, Justice Levi Bayleaf bowed to Songtree, and then added, “I
second the motion.”

Meanwhile,
Justice Cal Davies stifled his laughter by holding his mouth and turning his
head. For years, he’d longed to see someone check Adonis’ attitude and in the
space of a minute, he’d watched two people do it.